


Lone Clocks Tick

by drippingwithsin



Series: Clocks [1]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Infidelity, Not A Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drippingwithsin/pseuds/drippingwithsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The empty love of a married woman is just not enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lone Clocks Tick

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Just a little something I wrote a while back based off the song Stay by Sugarland

 

 

 

_It's too much pain to have to bear_  
_To love a woman you have to share_ **  
** _So why don't you stay_ **  
**

* * *

 

Dull brown lifeless eyes stare blankly at the cheap clock glaring mockingly downward upon her from across the hotel room, each tick seemingly louder than the last and each movement quicker. Experience has taught her that it would only be a matter of time before that hauntingly shrill sound would breakout and once more she would be left to drown in the pit of loneliness. With spindly coltish legs tangled in crisp white sheets long since heated by bouts of their supposedly 'lovemaking' and silky chocolate locks fanned across a damp pillow, Andy laid there, counting the minutes, and waiting with baited breath.

A few more precious moments of silence and prayers to kept something that was already taken.

And there it was right on schedule, that horrible shrill of a banshee's call so famous for plunging the proverbial knife just a little bit deeper into Andy's soul with each and every ring. Even with the knowledge of it's arrival, Andy still felt her longing heart plummet. Fantasy once again shredded only to be replaced by the chilled hardened embrace of reality.

Ruffling fabric followed by the distinct sound of a hard object upon another. "Hello." The greeting was rough and whiskey laced. "The shoot took longer than expected so I decided to stay at hotel" A pause. "What would you had me done Stephen drive home at three in the morning." Another lie to add to the already mile long list of one Miranda Priestly.

Andy turned half her body toward the other occupant, meeting those still hazy sapphire irises with her own chocolate ones, wide and doe-like they plead on bended knee for other woman not to leave, to just stay in her arms forever.

More words are exchanged followed by a reluctant "Alright, I will be home shortly." Bile burned the back of already tightened throat, once again she is denied. Feeling utterly used and helpless, Andy turned back to the accursed clock. A soft gentle hand touched her hip. "Andréa, I ha-"Just go." She interrupted, cringing at just how defeated those two words sounded falling from her quivering full lips.

A ragged breath, the toss of heavy covers, and the light thump of dainty feet upon stained carpet. The routine sounds all too familiar and soul wrenching.

The door shut with a sharp click and eyelids weighed down by tear soaked lashes slipped tightly shut, in a vain attempt to block everything out. In the silence of the room, she sobbed quietly until her heaving chest was sore and the white within around her chocolate orbs took on a crimson hue.

But as the minutes dragged onward, agony slowly metamorphosed into anger.

Flinging the sheets to the side she sat up, mind a whirlwind of emotions, her fingers curled around the sheets tight enough to cause skin along her knuckles to turn white. She was so very tired of worrying about everything but herself. With everyone of these little trysts, Andy could practically feel pieces of herself fade away but what does Miranda truly sacrifice? Nothing, pure nothing except maybe an hour of her time and a pair of panties.

Bitter salty tears trailed hot paths down smooth pale cheeks as Andy's throbbing conscious comes to an agonizing decision. In order for her to regain herself this, all of this had to end. She could no longer be the second best thing, the bed warmer, the rich _man's_  whore. Andy growled. No, she would not be someone's fucking whore any longer.

A shaking hand reached towards the nightstand and snatched the long forgotten device thrown there last night. She decided not to call instead, opening the inbox, she began to type.

_Miranda,_ _I can't keep doing this. I feel as though I'm losing myself and you just keep on taking and taking. Promises of divorce and love are declared but we both know that the divorce will never happen and I'm sure that you do love me, to a certain degree_.  _It's not enough though it will never be enough. So for your sake and mine forget this number_ , _forget about our little 'meetings' and most importantly forget about me._

It was done and all she felt was a bastard mixture of liberty and emptiness.

A minute later and the cell clutched within the confines of Andy's stiff hand chirped, startling her to the point that the device found its way onto the floor. Quickly almost desperately she dove for it.

**Message received 9:36 a.m. From M.** Her heart began to pound and hot moisture dampened already slick palms. Through squinted eyes she pressed the button to open it.

_Call me_   _now_

And oh, how tempting it was just to dial that memory ingrained number and tell her it was all a mistake, that she didn't mean it, and to just come back. She shook her head violently. No. This time she was going to do something for just herself.

This time she was going live again.

* * *

 

**End**

 


End file.
